


so I bare my skin and I count my sins

by hanorganaas



Series: August Rush 2014 [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, Bondage, Community: 1_million_words, Drama, Femdom, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Poor John, Post-Reichenbach, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanorganaas/pseuds/hanorganaas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment he wonders how Sherlock would act if he saw this. Him….shirtless, blindfolded and bound….and by Irene Adler, the Woman who stole Sherlock’s heart and came back from the dead of all people. He would probably laugh, psychoanalyze the deep seeded masochistic complex. But Sherlock wasn’t here was he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	so I bare my skin and I count my sins

**Author's Note:**

> For 1_Million_Word's August Rush Challenge using this picture prompt:
> 
> http://i203.photobucket.com/albums/aa108/Backstreetboysrule6/August%20Rush%202014/Day7IreneAdler.jpg

John’s eyes gaze straight ahead of him as nylon cords wrap around his wrists, binding him to the large beam. They are tight, cutting into the skin, but fulfill their purpose...keep him still.

“Would you like a blindfold?” A soft voice coos behind him, her hand runs down his arm gently. “many of my clients who enter the scene for the first time often request one. It makes them….less nervous should I say. But the pain….will be more intense.”

“Put it on,” He says. There is no hesitation in his voice. 

As the long piece of satin black cloth is tied around his eyes, completely engulfing his sight, for a moment he wonders how Sherlock would act if he saw this. Him….shirtless, blindfolded and bound….and by Irene Adler, the Woman who stole Sherlock’s heart and came back from the dead of all people. He would probably laugh, psychoanalyze the deep seeded masochistic complex. But Sherlock wasn’t here was he?

John closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing against the cloth. He hears footsteps. The woman is probably circling him, admiring his body before she marked it up with her whip. He suddenly feels the cool sensation of leather moving down his spine. He flinches, fists curling in the ropes.

“Are we still green Doctor Watson?” Irene’s voice says again.

“Yes Miss Adler,” John rasps. He just wants to get this over with. He wanted the physical pain to take away the mental agony that overwhelmed him. He wanted the image of Sherlock from that roof out of his head.

“Very well...remember red if you want to stop” Irene replies. The leather is gone and only silence fills his ears. It is the same eerie silence that lingers through the flat, a sound he hates. John bites his lip. Anticipating the riding crop coming down hard on his back….just as he anticipated Sherlock falling to his death on the ground. 

There is a swish in the air and a crack and the image disappeared. The pain sharp and his skin feels hot where the whip left the skin. He doesn’t cry, nor does he twitch. His breath only hitches a little. But he is beginning to feel less numb.

“Still green?” Irene says. John only nodded his head. He needed more. “I need you to count to Twenty..aloud.”

_One….two….three….four…..five._

The next five whips were just as easy as the first. They were only preliminary markings, a test one. They would only before harder as time would go on. He continued to breathe, in through his mouth and out through his nose. His teeth dug deeper into his lip.

_Six…...seven….eight….nine…..ten…..eleven…..twelve._

Now it was more difficult. The riding crop was hitting places where the crop had landed before. The pain in sharper as if he was being stabbed. He held his voice in for a while but now small cries were escaping his lips in the form whines and whimpers. 

_Thirteen…..fourteen….fifteen…..sixteen._

The crop falls harder. The pain becomes to become overwhelming. Cuts are opening. He feels thin streams of blood falling down his back. His forehead rests against the beam as he hisses loudly. The pain becoming too great it’s hard for him to breathe as tears escaped his eyes. For a moment he thinks of everything. Sherlock, him falling to his death, the blood, the mangled body that was once a handsome man full of confidence and quirks, the pain of grieving and the loss….and god how much John missed him….and loved him. 

_Seventeen…...eighteen…..nineteen….twenty._

And John lets go screaming at the top of his lungs. Everything that had been destroying him for the past three weeks mourning the loss of Sherlock had faded into the sharp pain that moves through his body. The last crack is the hardest John tenses and screams, slamming his eyes shut. 

John’s weeping as he hears the riding crop fall to the floor in a dull thud. 

“Thats it love” Irene says as she unties him. John’s arms are screaming in agony as the fall to his sides. “You are going to need time to adjust so I am going to keep the blindfold on.”

John’s loose and boneless as he falls into her arms. He doesn’t know if it’s instinct or just need but he buries his head in her shoulder. She embraces him, running her hand through his hair. He is surprised to see this affectionate side to her, but he’s grateful.

“Thank you,” He whispers, “thank you.”

“Anytime,” She says it is quiet for a few moments, “I miss him you know.”

“I know,” He sniffs, “but I guess we are suffering together right?”

And for the first time since Sherlock Holmes made his fatal fall, John Watson felt a sense of calm in a raging storm.


End file.
